entertain my faith
by Joanne Barcia
Summary: "The sudden sight of Oliver Queen holding a gun up to his own head – it isn't exactly the picture of what Tommy would call a serial killer with no remorse." Way alternate ending to the season 1 finale.


**A/N: Trigger warning for mention of and possible attempted suicide. Also, if you can't tell, I'm very much in denial about _somebody's_ death in that finale, so I deal with that in the way I know how. Write AUs in which they never died. _Perfect._**

**Okay, then. As you can probably tell, this is my first work for this fandom, so if you could just drop a quick note letting me know how I did, that would be wonderful. As always, please point out any errors or areas in need of improvement! Thanks! :)**

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><p>I must've forgot, you can't trust me,<br>_I'm open a moment and close when you show it,  
>Before you know it, I'm lost at sea,<br>And now that I write and think about it,  
>And the story unfolds,<br>You should take my life, you should take my soul._

_- Holding On To You, Twenty One Pilots_

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><p>If a man were searching for Oliver Queen, he really needn't go very far. Of course – where else would the man be after the destruction of the east side of the Glades? Above ground, the press is searching high and low for any trace of the Queen family, and the public is in hysterics. There are so many people looking to shove microphones in his face, people desperate for answers, people that would never leave Oliver alone, people, people, people –<p>

So can Tommy really blame him for hiding and brooding down in his Batcave? Of course not. He supposes that's what he would do, if he were the vigilante and Oliver were the confused best friend. But as it stands, it's the other way around; and even confused as all hell, Tommy still knows when not to let his best friend hole himself away. Aside from the very true fact that it's as far from healthy as anything – there are a few things he still needs to say to him. Things that didn't get said before he passed out in the wreckage of CNRI.

But when he finally gets the door open and carefully climbs down the steps, what he finds is not exactly brooding. Oh, he suddenly _wishes_ it was – but it's a few miles wide of that.

Look, he once called the man sitting in front of him with his head bowed in one hand a ruthless killer. A murderer, a monster. But now he can see the handgun dangling from his best friend's lax fingers and the slow, apathetic motion with which he brings the barrel of it to his temple; and it sends a chill down Tommy's spine, makes his stomach drop. The sudden sight of Oliver Queen holding a gun up to his own head – it isn't exactly the picture of what he would call a serial killer with no remorse.

"Oliver."

His voice echoes through the open space, but the vigilante across the room doesn't lift his head. Any indication that the man even heard him would certainly be welcome – but it isn't there.

"_Oliver."_

And his head rolls up to lazily glance Tommy's way, the gun moving with it, never leaving his skin. Tommy's not quite sure what he sees in his eyes.

"Oliver, put the gun down."

Absolutely nothing, _that's_ what he sees in Oliver's eyes. A blank, glazed over stare that widens only slightly at the sight of his best friend. A slow, robotic shake of the head is all the response Tommy gets.

"You know that's not the answer, Oliver. You _know_. _Put it down."_

There were only a handful of times in Tommy Merlyn's life when he truly felt pure, concentrated fear. When his mother was killed, that was the first time. Staring a life without her in the face, he was afraid for what his life would become, afraid his father would never come home again after leaving. Then there was the day the Queen's Gambit was shipwrecked, effectively stealing some of the closest people to him away into the night. They were dead, as far as he knew; and there was the fear again. Because he was _alone_ again.

Guess what he felt when he was staring down the Hood with his dying father on the ground behind him. Go on, guess. Did you guess _fear? _ Because you'd be absolutely right.

And then there was _Laurel_. He saved her, thank god, _thank god _– but the fear he felt was unmatched. Until now, that is.

Right now, staring at his best friend who's holding a gun to his own head, just a twitch of the finger away from ending his own life, all those other times seem to pale in comparison.

Oliver's right hand is shaking, and something in his chest is rattling with the hard breaths he's taking, and Tommy is this close to getting on his knees and begging, if that's what will stop this. But he can't move. So he settles.

"Please," he breathes. And if a slow tear trails down his cheek, he feels like it's justified in this moment. This moment when they're standing too far apart, too far for Tommy to do a single thing but try and talk him down and hope that Oliver doesn't decide to pull the trigger if he takes a step forward. Tommy tries, puts one foot forward, but quickly draws it back at the harsh intake of breath he hears in response.

He can only stare, now, at Oliver. The man with the gun, who's screwing his eyes shut and shaking his head almost wildly, the man who's whispering, "No, no – no."

"Why?"

"_Why?" _Oliver answers, voice unsteady. His eyes snap wide open, and Tommy can see it – the fear hidden there, the loss, the deep-rooted desire to just pull the trigger without justification. But Oliver Queen went too long without justifying his actions. Tommy's not letting this one slide, not without a fight.

"_Why?" _the vigilante repeats. "Why – why should I get to live, huh?"

Something in Tommy's chest physically aches at the sound of defeat in Oliver's voice.

"Why should I get to live when all those people in the Glades died? When _you –" _there are tears coming down Oliver's face now, too, and his breaths are becoming shallower and faster, and _God, _Tommy wishes he could do something, but the gun is still in Oliver's hand, pressed hard against his temple, and if he makes one wrong move, it could all be over in half a second.

"When you – God, what kind of _fucking_ hero can't save his own best friend, I – I _failed_," the mix of a sob and a yell, it strikes a chord. But when that sentence registers in Tommy's head, something clicks. "I failed my dad, I failed my mom, I failed Thea, I failed the Glades, I failed you, I – _I_ failed this city. This time it was me. I couldn't – I couldn't…_ God_, it should have been me who died at CNRI, it should have been _me!_"

He rises to his feet and stares at his best friend with his wide, unfocused eyes before screwing them shut. He drops his head, and the sound he makes could pass for either a sob or a whimper or something in between. The hand holding the gun is still shaking violently.

As silently as he can, Tommy takes the opportunity to move closer, and he takes slow, careful steps until he's close enough to reach out and touch Oliver. But he doesn't.

"Oliver," his voice is inches away from breaking. But it doesn't. "Ollie, you know… you know I'm _alive_. Right? You _didn't_ fail me."

And Oliver, he laughs this cruel, broken laugh, and looks at him, but doesn't really see him.

"Tommy, I watched you die."

"Did you?" he lets himself smile, the smallest bit of hope that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Are you sure you didn't slink out just before paramedics got to me? Are you sure about that? Because –" he lifts up his shirt to reveal thick white gauze wrapped around his midsection and continues, "Because I'm alive. Okay? _You didn't fail me."_

Oliver looks unconvinced.

So he repeats, "You didn't fail me. Not me, or Laurel, or Thea, or your parents, or this _city_, Oliver. You didn't –"

"Yes I did." The glassy look in the green-smudged eyes is unnerving in itself, but the disbelief that's settled there is even worse. And Tommy, he's lost for words, because here he is – standing right in front of Oliver, in the flesh, and his friend doesn't believe it?

He reaches forward and gently takes Oliver's free hand in his and slowly brings it to his stomach. He holds it there, and notes how the skin of the archer's hand is far warmer than it probably should be. He says nothing about it.

"Ollie, I'm right here, okay? I'm not dead, it's alright. Just put the gun down."

He doesn't.

"Okay. Fine," he says, slowly moving his free hand away from Tommy's stomach. "Fine, say – say you are alive. It doesn't matter."

"_It doesn't –"_

"_It doesn't matter!"_ his eyes are wide open, just as terrified as Tommy's, and, if his shining cheeks are anything to go by, just as wet. "I couldn't stop the Undertaking in time, Tommy, and even if you didn't die, all those people _did_. So tell me: why should I get to live? If they can't, why me?"

His voice breaks at the very end and Tommy has absolutely no idea what to say. So he improvises.

"Hey, Ollie, look… look, maybe you couldn't save the East side, and… okay, yeah. Maybe this time, _this time, _you failed, but – Oliver, you are _human_. Humans make mistakes, they fail. Does that mean you deserve to die?"

Oliver considers this. And, looking straight ahead, he nods.

"I'm not human, Tommy. I'm a killer. I have killed… lots of people…."

He pulls the hammer back with his thumb, and the threatening click of the handgun against his head echoes.

"What's one more person?"

"_Oliver!"_

They're in a stand-off. Looking into Oliver's eyes, Tommy is sure, now, that if he moves any muscle but his mouth – then there will only be one person walking out of this room tonight. Thankfully, Tommy's panicked shout made the archer pause yet again.

"Oliver," he has to fight to keep his voice even. "Oliver, you _are_ human. I know I've said things – I've said _terrible _things – but you need to listen. Do you – do you even want to know why I came down here tonight?"

There is no response.

"I came tonight… to say thank you. _For saving my life._ And I came to say that I'm sorry for all the terrible things I've said, because you're not just some serial killer; you're not a monster, Ollie. Monsters kill people for no reason, but that's not you. You killed because you had to, to _save_ people. And that's what you do, man, you save people all the time. I know you didn't have enough hands to save the East side of the Glades, but you saved the West! That's still hundreds of people that would have died without you, and that _means _something. _You _mean something."

There's pure exhaustion shining out, now, from Oliver's eyes, and the shaking of his hand begins to slow. Oliver takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Why can't you just let me die?"

And Tommy answers without missing a beat, "Because you're my best friend, Oliver. And I will forgive you absolutely everything but leaving me alone again. So don't go away again, okay? Not where I can't follow."

The determination slowly leaks out of the archer's body, and his shoulders relax, just slightly. He turns it over and over in his mind and tries once more –

"Tommy, I – no, no…" he says weakly. "I have to…"

"No. You don't."

Tommy carefully steps forward and gently takes hold of Oliver's heated wrist and guides it slowly away from his head.

"We'll make a deal, alright? You'll drop this gun. And we'll clean up that shoulder of yours that's still bleeding – and probably mildly infected – and we'll get you to bed. You'll stay alive, Ollie. Just for tonight. And I promise you: tomorrow will be better. Okay?"

One by one, Tommy unwraps Oliver's fingers from the handle until the gun is free from the archer's possession. The safety goes back on and Tommy lowers it to the ground before sliding it away, across the floor.

When he stands back up and puts both hands on his best friend's shoulders, Oliver's looking at him with this mix of relief and incredulous disbelief in his wide, fevered eyes.

"Just for tonight?" he echoes.

"Yeah, Ollie. Just for tonight."

It's barely visible – but the archer nods and breathes out a soft, "Okay."

"Okay!"

And Tommy uses both hands to pull Oliver close and wraps his arms around his shaking shoulders. He hears soft, rhythmic gasps in his ear by where his best friend has buried his head in his neck, and his newly-stitched-up middle aches from Oliver gripping him so tight, but he couldn't possibly care less about that.

All he cares about in this moment is getting through the next one. And they will. They'll get through this moment and all the ones hereafter, he knows that with full certainty. But for now, all he's got to worry about is getting his best friend to bed so that they can both live to see what the next day will bring.


End file.
